These were fine words, and well calculated to inspire a spirit of high emprise.
“I hope Jode is taking that in,” whispered Darrel to Merriwell; “but, I’ll gamble my spurs, he’s going to beat the pistol, just the same.”
Ballard, all that morning, had been preoccupied to an extent that had drawn some criticism from the professor. The interesting events of the night, which he had not only kept a secret himself but had likewise warned Fritz to keep in the background, probably had a good deal to do with his poor showing at the problems put up to him by Borrodaile.
At eleven-thirty, when the studious ones were allowed a breathing spell before dinner, Ballard hooked onto Merriwell and led him to a secluded place for a talk. Fritz had to call them three times to “grub pile,” and when the two finally arrived, their faces were flushed with excitement, and there was an air about them that suggested mysterious things.
At two-thirty in the afternoon a general movement set in toward the mesa. Both camps emptied themselves upon the little plateau, so that nearly forty spectators assembled to watch the race between Darrel and Lenning.
The course had already been marked off by Brad, Spink, and Handy. Beman, for Lenning, had looked it over and pronounced it O. K. On one side of this course the Gold Hill men were grouped, and on the other side the fellows from Ophir.
Colonel Hawtrey and Hawkins stood together, and Merriwell, for the first time, got a good look at the colonel. He was much impressed with his soldierly bearing, but in his face could be read sternness and determination—and a sadness which did not, in the least, diminish the more Spartan qualities.
Bleeker, of Gold Hill, crossed the course and stepped up to Merriwell.
“There ought to be a judge and a starter, I reckon,” said he. “I don’t see any need of makin’ this event top-heavy with officials. Do you?”
“Not at all,” Frank answered. “I’d suggest that Colonel Hawtrey act as judge of the race.”